Shadows and Light
by ladyofdarkstar
Summary: What would have happened if Horatio had stood trial in Brazil? If he was found guilty? How would that have changed him? What would happen to the lives of those around him? WARNING: STRONG SEXUAL CONTENT IN CHAPTER 5. Reviews are love!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Contains spoilers for the end of season six. I do not own CSI: Miami or any of the characters save those I create myself. Please do not sue. This is just for fun.

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If you'd asked me five years ago if I'd ever hunt down Horatio Caine, I would have laughed in your face and told you it was impossible. Of all the cops I'd ever known, Horatio was the absolute last I'd ever expect to go rogue. Sure, his brother had been dirty, had snorted more meth than he'd ever gotten off the streets. But Horatio was not Raymond. Horatio was not a man to give into greed, temptation, or even the slightest thought of abandoning his sworn promise to protect and serve.

Maybe that was the problem. You know what they say about something—or someone—being too good to be true.

He was standing right in front of me. All I had to do was squeeze down on the trigger and it would all end. All the violence, the death and the pain would end. For him. For me. For every officer that had ever served with him, and every heart he broke when he'd walked away from the job. Calleigh, Eric, Ryan, Natalia… they were mine now, their souls tainted and hearts wounded beyond belief by his betrayal. But they were still good people, solid criminalists sworn to uphold the law.

Even if it meant hunting down the man they had all loved in their own ways.

And me? Yeah, I'd loved him, too. Loved him with my whole heart. It was why I'd walked away from the job five years ago, and it was why I took it back when they'd told me what he'd done. I was the only one that loved him enough to go after him, and hated what he'd become enough to put that love behind me.

"Horatio… It's done. Come in with me."

Those blue eyes were as sharp as I remembered them, but they were cold and hard. Like glass instead of the way they used to remind me of the ocean. No love or compassion undulated in their depths. No emotion swirled warmth into his gaze. It was flat, cold and so full of intelligence that I wanted to weep. He was the undisputed King of Miami now. After Julia had deported him to Brazil, after he'd stood trial and was convicted of the murder of Antonio Riaz, he'd returned in disgrace. The Brazilian courts had sentenced him to exile. He was never again welcome in their sunny country.

What happened in the states was much worse, and yet much the same. An offer was made to him by the city he had loved most, by the badge that was as much a part of him as his own heartbeat: serve the rest of your career riding a desk in some obscure department, or quit.

Either way you looked at it, it was exile all the same.

He'd quit. And in a month's time had organized what was left of the Mala Noche into a force unseen since the days of the Mafioso. He'd brought back the old ways, the old codes. Women were women. They were to be cherished. Children weren't to be touched—at all. Collateral damage was unacceptable: meaning if someone wronged you, you went after that one person. If you so much as looked the wrong way at that person's innocent family, you were dead.

Caine would kill you, himself. He was Kaiser Sosay from The Usual Suspects. He was the ghost in the dark, the shadow under the bed. You fucked with him, his rules, or his family, and you were dead.

End of list.

My hand trembled, the gun wavering just slightly. Caine raised an eyebrow, staring at me in his million dollar suit, head cocked slightly to the side. "Megan," he said my name softly, causing a shiver to ripple down my spine. "Or should I say, Lieutenant Donner. You wear the rank well. I always knew you would."

Beside him stood Father Memmo Fierro, wearing his black priestly robes. His hands were clasped behind his back, and around his neck gleamed a rosary made of rubies and yellow gold. It was a gift from Caine to him when he'd taken his priestly vows. He was the only one Caine confessed to now. Even as the Don of Miami, Caine was still a devout Catholic.

How had it come to this? How had a man as good as Horatio become a murderer? How had a man as wicked as Memmo become a priest? And how in the hell had Horatio taken to confessing to the man that started this whole thing? Memmo had killed his iwife/i, for crying out loud!

"You wear your money just as well," I shot back, eyes brimming with tears. "How does it feel to profit off the sickness you once tried to heal? Bet you go to sleep every night in that fortress you call a home on Star Island, all safe and happy."

Something passed through those unearthly blue eyes. A shadow of anger? A shadow of pain? I didn't know. I was feeling too much to try and figure him out. This time I couldn't leave emotion at the door. Not when it came to him.

"I sleep well, thank you," he answered. "Now are you going to shoot me, or can I go to confession?"

Behind me, two of Caine's men—former Mala Noche—shifted slightly. His bodyguards, I realized. They were loyal to him to their last breath, and even if I gunned him down in the middle of this church, they'd kill me before I had time to draw my last breath. "Go," I sighed, lowering my gun. "And afterwards I want to talk to you."

Those lips curved slightly in what would have been a smile on anyone else's mouth. "I have a very busy day ahead of me, Lieutenant Donner. But you do have my number. Call my attorney and make an appointment. I'll be happy to accommodate you."

He started to turn away and I felt myself snap. My hand reached out, clasped over his wrist. "Dammit, Caine!"

He turned slowly to me, and in the blink of an eye it was his hand grabbing my upper arm, yanking me against him so hard my teeth nearly rattled. "_DO NOT_ curse inside this church," He said softly, calmly. "You have no reason to question me. You have no proof, no witnesses and no evidence to indict me. Until you do, I would appreciate you keeping your distance or I will be forced to press harassment charges. Lieutenant Donner is not welcome in my home or near my person. Megan, on the other hand, is."

With that, he let me go. Just as calmly he turned and followed Father Fierro into the confessional, his two bodyguards taking up position around it.

He was my enemy now, and yet he'd left me an opening. For the first time since his reign as the King of Miami's underworld, he was ready to talk about it.


	2. Chapter 2

It figured that lightning would be dancing in a rainless sky the day I'd decided to take Caine up on his offer. The clouds were dark and heavy, the air pregnant with the promise of a ground-saturating downpour the likes we Floridians only saw during the months of April, May, and June. It was an odd day of weather for early November, and still it was fitting.

Because today promised to be an odd day to say the least.

The department issue H3 Hummer stood out like a sore thumb as I cruised along the prominent drive of Star Island. Sure, some of these billionaires had Hummers, but they were locked in private garages. No one would be so gauche as to leave it in plain sight of the neighbors. Heaven forbid that the members of this private community think one of its own actually drove a car that was accessible by the average working stiff.

I'd chosen to take the Hummer for a reason. First, to remind Caine of whom and what I was. Second, to remind him of who and what he was. Or more to the point, what he no longer was. His attorney, one Alejandro Castillo, had offered to have Caine's own limo pick me up from the lab. I'd politely refused, choosing instead to drive myself. Not that I feared that Caine would leave me stranded someplace. Just call it a precaution.

Besides, Eric and Calleigh had pitched the world's largest bitch that I was going there at all. Especially alone. But those were the terms that he'd set. Just me, for now. Just lunch at his home. Just one interview.

Just one peek, for the very first time, at the home he guarded as tightly as his own thoughts.

I pulled to a stop at the huge iron gates, flashed my badge at the man standing watch over the entrance. He stared at me long and hard, the way you might stare at a pigmy rattler you found curled up on your front porch. It may not kill you right away, but it had the potential to make your life a living hell if it bit you good. I flashed him a polite smile, one that seemed to make him all the more nervous, and received a half-hearted wave in return.

I tried not to think about the prison tats that ran the length of that waving arm. Dollars to donuts if I suggested he take off his nicely pressed shirt that I'd find the three pronged devil's fork, the Mala Noche symbol, tattooed over his heart.

The driveway was bordered by more thick green trees than I'd seen outside a national park. The driveway itself nothing but crushed white marble chips. Caine probably paid a fortune to his gardeners just to keep all that marble in line where it belonged and not sprawling about the manicured lawns. The glimpses of those before-mentioned lawns I gathered showed that the property line went on forever. I couldn't catch so much as a glimmer of his neighbor's property.

I wondered if the rumors were true, that this house and the surrounding houses had once been Mala Noche drug houses, that Caine had purchased all the properties and had them leveled to create this fortress. Talk about a display of power and wealth.

Thunder started to rumble as I made the slow progress up the winding driveway, and finally the monstrosity he called home came into view. Soaring towers and turrets, more windows than I could count. And that was just the primary residence. Arial maps had shown that Caine had six other mansion-sized houses—all of which looked like a shoebox apartment in comparison to the main house—sprawling out behind this one. I had no idea who lived in those houses, but I could place good money that it was where he housed his soldiers.

The house didn't scream money or power. It screamed tradition, like something you would see in Wuthering Heights or Manderley from the Hitchcock movie "Rebecca." And when I pulled to final stop in front of the massive double doors, Horatio, himself, stood on the marble steps to greet me.


	3. Chapter 3

"Welcome," he said, inclining his head as I strode up the steps towards him.

His eyes were still flat, I noted, still cold and sharp and utterly without emotion. It made me pause in front of him, made my own eyes search his in a vain hope to find the ashes of the man I once knew. "Thank you."

The corners of his mouth did that curving thing again, an almost-smile on his lips. Now that was one expression I could read well enough. It said that I might not be thanking him when I left. If anything, I might be cursing his name. I shook that thought away. I had no idea why he wanted me to visit, but I wasn't going to throw away the opportunity to get inside his home, inside his head.

Two men came out of the open front door, moving quickly to flank me. It was the same two guys from the church, the guys I secretly nicknamed Frick and Frack. His bodyguards. I didn't have to be asked. I knew the drill here, too. So I lifted my arms and let them pat me down. My badge I was allowed to keep. Thankfully my gun was locked back at the lab. It was one of the reasons Calleigh went ballistic when I told her where I was going.

Documented or not, she didn't want me going anywhere without protection. I had told her that Caine's word was protection enough. Regardless of what he may or may not have done to achieve his level of power, his word still held his bond. If he said I would come and go unharmed, then I believed him. He'd never lied to me once, not while we worked together and not while I hunted him.

I trusted him. Yet another oddity to add to a really odd day.

"Satisfied?" I asked when his goons stepped back.

The smile grew slightly, and I thought for a second that I detected a note of amused sarcasm in it. "More pleased than satisfied," he said, turning to walk into the behemoth he called a house.

I guessed that that was my invitation to follow, so I did. And I didn't even bother to hide my shocked amazement at the interior of his house. He could fit five houses inside his foyer, the gold that accented the marble compass inlaid in the floor enough to purchase a small country. Art and paintings, items of extreme and exquisite beauty graced the walls or stood resplendent in alcoves carved into the many pillars. Two ivory and mahogany staircases spiraled up to a second floor balcony. It was everything that Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous drooled over.

Caine seemed not to notice it. Probably used to the splendor around him all the time. And yet as I followed behind him as we crossed the massive foyer, I changed my mind. He wasn't used to it. He owned it all, but he moved like he wasn't a part of it. Like a man suspended in time, just a second out of step from the rest of the world, unable to touch or affect what was around him. That thought gave me chills. What the hell had happened to him to make him like this?

Did I have the courage to find out?

He walked into another set of double doors in between the curving stair cases. I followed, stepping into a library larger than the public one in downtown Miami. Books from floor to the roof, cascading up walls to an edged balcony, and then continuing to the domed ceiling. Those funny little ladders slid on oiled racks like something out of the 1920s. Of everything I'd already seen of his house, this one room alone seemed to fit the man I used to know.

This was Horatio's true domain, a place of knowledge and peace and learning. Whatever he had made himself into these days, he was still a scholar and teacher at heart. That part of him would never change, and I was thankful for that. It meant there was something still human left in him.

On the other hand, it also indicated that there was still a fiery and very, very rational intelligence to him still. Which meant he wasn't crazy or driven by his emotions. He knew—and knew damn well—the cost of every action he took, weighed the potential of every blink of an eye. It scared and assured me all at once.

I had the impression that he spent every moment he could in this room. Inviting me into it was to invite me into his most intimate thoughts.

He saw the look on my face and smiled slightly, a shade of his former self peeking through. "I thought you would appreciate this."

"Yeah, I do," I nodded. "Not sure why you are showing it to me, though."

"Aren't you?"

Oh, I knew why he was showing it to me. He was trying to throw me off balance, and it was working. I wasn't going to admit it, though. "Not a clue."

That smile grew a bit more. Yeah, he knew I was lying through my teeth. "I've arranged for us to have lunch in here," he continued, waving me to a lovely spread of finger sandwiches, chilled salads and fresh fruit. "Join me?"

I shrugged, trying to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling growing between my shoulder blades. "Mr. Caine, I can't stay long. You asked me here to talk—"

"I asked Megan to lunch in my home," he cut in, annoyance filtering through his calm mask. "I didn't invite Lieutenant Donner. You know very well what I'm saying."

Now it was time for me to weigh my actions and the repercussions of my next decision. Have lunch with him and attempt to get into his head, or be asked to leave and never have this chance again. My lips compressed into a thin line. I wasn't going to bother hiding my dislike of the situation. He wanted honesty? He wanted a conversation with Megan Donner? Fine, he'd get it in all its unpolished and blunt glory.

"Fine," I said at last. "But we lay down the ground rules first."

Caine's eyes glittered with faint amusement, some of the ice chipping off that frosty distant stare. "Agreed."

He pulled out the chair for me and I took it, watching as he moved to sit across from me. "The rules?" He asked casually, pouring iced tea into two cut-crystal glasses that probably cost more than I made in a month.

"First off, I can't discuss ongoing investigations," I began, holding up a hand to forestall the argument I saw forming on his lips. "You wanted lunch with me, you got it. I am the job now, Horatio. So don't tell me to divorce myself from work and chat about the weather. It always circles back to the job for me. Once, it did the same for you."

"Once," he agreed, and handed over a plate of fresh fruit. "Not anymore."

"Second," I continued. "You tell me the real reason why you wanted this conversation."

He sighed heavily at that, setting down his fork and whipping his mouth with the silk napkin. "Not to sound overly dramatic, Megan, but are you certain you want to know? This conversation could break you."

"I'm already broken," I surprised myself by saying. "You broke me when you left, when you did what you did to become what you are."

"Then allow me to attempt to fix what I broke," he said, pinning me with those blue eyes. "It may not repair the damage, but it will fix it. Do you understand the difference?"

No. I didn't understand at all. But I had I feeling I was about to educated on the topic.


	4. Chapter 4

We were seated at the little table when he started talking, sharing a cool lunch against a bank of glass windows that showed the amazing view of the side gardens along his house. His tone was light and soft like I remembered it, patiently explaining the details that had lead him to this point. He would stop when I interjected a question, answer it smoothly and somehow weave that answer into the narrative. It was like every question I asked was the bridge between the next part of his story.

Not all of it was as nice as his voice made it out to be.

I was fairly certain I would have nightmares for the rest of my life as a result of what he said. It was just too much to take in.

My objections, my desire for him to stop speaking, first manifested in raised eyebrows as he continued. Then I was swallowing more than I should, hiding it behind sips of my iced tea. There was so much sadness in his tale, so much anger and remorse and utter frustrated helplessness. And I had to sit there and listen. I knew if I told him to stop, if I said that four letter word S-T-O-P, he would acquiesce… and then never speak of it again.

So I did my best to deal with it. The swallowing progressed into a slight trembling in the hand that held my fork, and that trembling lead to me dropping said fork. My appetite fell with that utensil. I just couldn't focus on food and what he was telling me.

He smiled gently, sadness welling in those crystal blue eyes. Taking my hand, he led me back into the main part of the library. A glass of good expensive scotch was pushed into my hand. I drank at it gratefully, taking a seat in one of the leather chairs. He leaned against his desk, his own tumbler of amber liquid held untouched as he continued. No matter how horrified or how many tears escaped my eyes, he wouldn't stop.

He wouldn't stop. It was too much…. Just too damn much.

"My first murder," He murmured. "It was my father. I came home one day to see my mother lying in a pool of blood, half dead from the beating he'd given her. My brother whimpered from the closet where my mother had hidden him, saving him from that bastard's fists. First instinct was to call for help, to get the paramedics here as fast as possible. And then to make sure my brother was okay. My second thought was to get them to safety. But by that time, _he_ had come home.

"I didn't hesitate, Megan," he said, looking into my eyes. "I was in uniform, fresh from my first week on patrol. I had my sidearm, and I used it. I shot him between the eyes and I didn't flinch. My mother died on that floor while I sat holding her hand. And yet for all that pain that he inflicted on us all, I was the one that carried the guilt and the punishment."

Horatio stared down into his scotch, as if it were a gateway to the past. "I was found not-guilty in the eyes of the law due to self-defense and the defense of others. But in the eyes of the Catholic church?" he laughed bitterly. "That was a different story altogether. Penance was set for me, and I gave all my life trying to make it right. It wasn't about the life that I took, but the lives that I saved. And when I had done enough, I would know. I would be forgiven then. But as the years progressed and the blood on my hands increased, I knew I would never be forgiven."

"You don't know that," I snapped, suddenly angry for him, furious at the church that would prescribe such an unjust penance for an act out of his control. "I'm just as catholic as you, Horatio. And I've killed in the line of duty, too. God forgives. He always forgives those that are truly repentant."

One eyebrow rose, and the sadness in those eyes turned into brittle hardness. "That would require one to ask forgiveness first, wouldn't it?"

I felt the color start to drain from my face, that flash of temper vanishing under the cold weight of those eyes. Dead eyes, Calleigh once called them when she had stared at the image of a serial killer. Horatio had dead eyes. The liquid in my glass sloshed a bit as the trembling came back.

"I thought I had asked for forgiveness," He continued. "But in truth, I hadn't. Years and years I spent trying to find that salvation, that moment when I knew I could put down the badge and live my life. I thought it had come with Marisol. I had found a woman to love me unconditionally, who wanted to try and have a family. Less than twenty-four hours of wedded bliss and she was dead. Another woman lying in a pool of her own blood, killed by an uncaring man who honestly didn't have anything better to do."

"Killed by the man you now confess your sins to," I put in. "Memmo killed Marisol. After everything you've told me, how could you forgive him? If I'm to believe the rumors about you, you've killed men for less. Why forgive him?"

"Because he forgave himself," Horatio shrugged. "He pays his penance for his actions. He is an ordained priest now, Megan. God has forgiven him, taken him into his service."

"Because he asked for forgiveness," I shook my head.

Again, he shrugged. "It is not my place to say who God forgives and who He doesn't."

"But you don't think He would ever forgive you."

"I don't believe I'm ready to ask Him that, just yet."

"Horatio—"

He cut me off with an upraised hand. "This is not a theocratic debate, Megan. This is a conversation that you have asked me to have with you. I would return to that, if you wouldn't mind. Marisol's death started a chain of events that would show me the steps I needed to take in order to ensure those I loved wouldn't suffer anymore. I would make it my penance to keep them all safe. And so, when Julia appeared in my life and dug around to the truth of Antonio Riaz's murder, the stage, as they say, was set for the final act.

"Yes," he said, taking a sip of his scotch, finally. "I killed Riaz. Another death that the evidence will show as self defense and the defense of others. But in reality? I enjoyed killing him. I took him down for all the kids that died mulling his drugs, for the lives he destroyed by letting his gang run unchecked. I stood there beneath the statue of Jesus and took vengeance for all the things Riaz had done. I stared out at Rio, knowing that a million other Riaz's were just lining up to take his place."

"And so you did, instead," I murmured.

"Yes."

I got up and paced, trying to put this all together in my head. "But why? If you hated Riaz and the Mala Noche so much, why become one of them?"

Horatio chuckled. "Did I? Did I become one of them, or did they become one of me?"

I stopped. I just stopped moving, stopped feeling, stopped fucking thinking. It was all falling together now in a way that made me so sick. Why hadn't I seen it from the beginning? How the hell had Calleigh missed it? Did Eric realize what was happening and just turn a blind eye? Was his amnesia faked, or did he really remember everything that had happened in those three months before he was shot?

He nodded slowly, almost pleased that I was able to piece together the clues he was dropping.

"Julia was in on it," I breathed, stumbling backward until I fell back into the chair, staring up at him with muted horror. "Her sudden appearance, the death of her new husband. Even Kyle's placement in jail. You did every bit of it, orchestrated the whole fucking thing."

Again, he nodded slowly. "I found Julia the day I realized Kyle was my son. Winston was no angel. If anything, he was just as dirty as Julia. Removing him was easy and left us in a position to reclaim our son and protect everything we loved. We put together the kidnapping that would have Kyle arrested. Ron took the extra step to have Kathleen drown in her own car, for which I killed Ron. Kathleen was in on it, too. Agreeing to everything for a chance away from her abusive husband. One million and a new ID can go so far in saving an abused woman from her attacker. Ron got sloppy and wanted to ensure Kathleen's silence. Ron paid for that mistake."

I was shaking my head back and forth, unable to believe what I was hearing. It was like a modern-day Godfather movie.

"Taking over the Mala Noche was a simple matter after we gained Winston's fortune. Money gave us the mobility and the mean to purchase certain loyalties. And what we couldn't purchase…" he trialed off, looking deeply into my eyes. "Well, if you live by the gun, you die by it. New rules were issued by my hand. No more selling dope or guns or anything to kids. No more collateral damage of drive-by shootings. My soldiers were to be smart, educated and deadly accurate. One way or the other, we were going to clean up the streets of Miami."

"Mercenaries," I gasped in disbelief. "You turned the Mala Noche into mercenaries?"

"A little help from my new friends in Peregrine Securities ensured training on every level I needed. But yes, in essence, we became mercenaries. Foreign conflicts and rescues of ransomed individuals pay far more than drugs and illegal weapons. And it's also clean and legal money in America."

"Which is why we couldn't pin anything on you."

He smiled again, and again it never reached his eyes. "Exactly right."

Shaken to the core didn't even begin to describe how I was feeling. Nothing he told me could be pinned on him now. He had already been charged and either convicted or found innocent on every charge he had told me about. Double jeopardy forbade me from arresting him again for the same crime. And what I could arrest him on, like the Winston and Saris murders, I had no proof on. Just his word and mine. I couldn't bring him in on anything he'd said, I suddenly realized, because I hadn't given him his rights. Everything he had told me was null and void in the eyes of the law.

Son of a _bitch_! There was simply nothing I could do.

"There is more, Megan, so much more I want to tell you. But now is not the time."

I watched him strip his jacket off and toss it casually across his desk. My eyes were riveted to his fingers as he undid the heavy gold cufflinks and then the buttons of his silk shirt. I don't know what I expected to see on his skin. Maybe the Mala Noche pitchfork? Some sort of gang tattoo? I didn't even know why I was staring until he was kneeling down in front of me.

"Why?" I whispered, shell shocked and numb. "Why tell me?"

His hands rested on my knees, and my eyes widened as he pushed them apart and yanked me forward until I was straddling him. My hands landed on his shoulders to steady myself, my breath heaving in and out of my chest in fear and yet… god, was it true? Did I really want him? After everything he said, after how off-balance I was, did I really want him?

His answer was one word. "Because."

That was all he said before his mouth was on mine in a crushing, soul-devouring kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

I ate at his mouth in a play of hot tongue and firm, hard lips. Inwardly I was screaming, telling myself not to do this. If I let him take me, it was all over. I would loose all my credibility as an officer of the law if it ever came out. Sleeping with the godfather of Miami had a way of making you sound dirty. Every defense attorney in the world would use that to discredit any evidence I uncovered in any case I'd work from that point on.

So why was I still kissing him? Why were my hands sliding over his bare chest as if I couldn't get enough of him?

Because I'm human, that's why. Because I'd wanted him from the first day I saw him. I was just too wrapped up in grief from the death of my husband. Six years had passed and I still wanted this man like I wanted oxygen. Because I needed him to keep me sane, to keep me alive. That was the whole reason I took this assignment, I realized.

Because if I couldn't have him, I would at least have a part in his world. I surrounded myself with all aspects of his supposed crimes.

I stared at his damn picture every day when I walked into my office—_his_ former office. I pushed myself into his mindset, trying to figure out what his next move was going to be. Secretly I hoped to catch a glimpse of him, to have him catch a glimpse of me, too.

And, much like he had said, simply _because_.

"You knew," I half-gasped/half-accused as his mouth burned down the side of my neck. "You knew all this time."

His reply was to unhook the front of my pants, the zipper parting with a casual slowness that felt like forever. And then his hand slid inside, fingers a feather-touch across my sex. It made my breath catch in a moan, eyes closing at the overload of sensations he caused me. Never before had I wanted a man like this. And the truth was that I wanted him even more than I had wanted my husband.

God, I was really going to do this, wasn't I? I was going to sleep with him.

Horatio's hand disappeared and I found myself jerked to my feet. His mouth was back on mine as if he couldn't get enough, either. The world was a dizzying display of color as he pulled me rapidly into an elevator. Part of my brain realized that I hadn't noticed an elevator before. It had to have been concealed, and even that was a passing thought. He pushed me up against the wall, hands pulling my t-shirt up over my head. Vaguely I was aware that he'd stripped me of my leather jacket somewhere along the way to the elevator.

The moment the shirt cleared my head, he twisted it in his hands, effectively pinning my hands above my head. One free hand moved down my throat, dancing down my chest until he got to my bra. Blue eyes nearly black with desire fixed on mine, and his hand dipped inside to capture my left breast. My head snapped back, my spine bowing as little jolts of lightning spiked through me. His deep chuckle only speared on the fires inside my body, his thumb and forefinger catching my nipple and rolling it until I was panting.

I tried to free my arms just so I could touch him back, but he wasn't having any of that. He pushed up my bra and replaced his fingers with his mouth. The world exploded in tiny sparks of color and arousal, and when my vision cleared, I was laying beneath him on the largest bed I had ever seen. My bra was gone, my t-shirt somehow looped around my wrists, tying them behind my back.

I was lying prone beneath him, and it was the hottest thing I could imagine.

He tugged off my boots, pulled my trousers from my legs. The only time he hesitated was when his fingers brushed the sculpted gold of my lieutenant's shield. I saw it then, the shift in him. His eyes flashed to the blue I remembered and such sorrow overcame him that it nearly cut through the haze of sexual need that seemed to coat me like a second skin. He missed it. He truly missed his former life.

But then the shield was nothing more than a glint of gold as he tugged it from my belt and tossed it casually away. I lost myself to him when those amazing fingers slipped under the waistband of my panties, peeling them slowly from my body. How I wanted to help, to arch my hips and invite him to do far more. But he was in control now, and I knew it. I was helplessly drunk on expensive scotch and pure desire.

He licked his way back up my legs, my eyes snapping shut. Little whimpers left my lips up to the point where his mouth met my core. And then there was nothing little or quiet about the sounds that escaped my mouth. His tongue invaded me, rocked me up on orgasmic heights and shattered me on pleasure. One hand snaked beneath me, catching hold of the t-shirt bindings and pulling down. It made me arch, pushed me into the position he wanted, and then I was screaming his name again and again as I came.

I was helpless, drowning, and he wasn't anywhere near finished with me.

"Again," He growled, command so thick in his voice I almost came from it. "Come for me again."

His fingers replaced his tongue, the hand holding my make-shift cuffs jerking me upright until I was nearly straddling him again. My body was covered in sweat, quaking from overload. "I can't," I gasped, thinking I was going to die from how fast my heart was beating.

He only raised an eyebrow. His fingers plundered me, first two and then three inside me. It hurt and yet I couldn't get enough. He stretched me, pushing deep until he found that sweet spot deep inside… and then he truly worked me. I was nearly weeping as I did what he asked. I came for him so hard I thought I would lose consciousness, my voice ragged from the cries he pulled from me.

And then I was falling back against the mattress again, my arms somehow free. And he was naked, his erection a hard, throbbing presence against my thigh. I thought his mouth would be crushing again, demanding and so deliciously harsh. But it wasn't. Not this time. It was tender, gentle, a sweet rewarding rush against mine.

Tentatively I lifted my arms, hands coming to rest lightly on his shoulders. My eyes opened slightly, and I saw his soft smile. His eyes were still dark with lust, but it wasn't the driving immediate need to dominate. It was a man wanting to worship the woman in his arms. And somehow I knew that I was in charge this time around. He'd do anything I asked.

The thrill of that knowledge! To have such a powerful man in my arms, willing to do anything I asked. It was a rush that made me warm to his touch all over again. I didn't need scotch and fear or remembered lust to make me want him. I just needed to look in his eyes, to move my hips against his.

My lips initiated the kiss this time, my body coaxing him inside me. When my back bowed to the sensation, it was with a tender sigh instead of a scream of instant orgasm. We made love in that giant bed, rolling so that I was atop him, our hands entwining as I rode him. Our rhythm slow and steady.

His hands still bore the calluses that all cops had; years of holding a gun just so often did that. It was a turn-on to me, a reminder that he was still Horatio Caine.

He was deadly and determined, sad and humble, and utterly human.

He was too much.

He was never enough.

We climaxed together, riding that final wave until we both gasped out our feelings. And then once more I was falling in a blur of color, landing on my side in the bed. He pulled me close, wrapping a cashmere blanket around us. "Sleep," he whispered, placing a gentle kiss against my ear. "Just sleep, Megan. Let it all go…"

I did.


	6. Chapter 6

It was early evening when I woke, the brilliance of a Miami sunset just beginning to chase away the crisp blue of the summer sky. The light played through the cut-crystal windows, scattering the refracted light into a million tiny rainbows across the room. Part of me found it disturbing that all the windows were cut in such patterns, never allowing a clear view to the outside, and yet not affording the same view from the same. Yet another mark on the why-I-shouldn't-have-done-this list.

The fact that the man couldn't even permit an unobstructed view of his own backyard from his bedroom showed just how dangerous he was, and just how much danger everyone around him was in.

I pushed myself upright, palms sinking into a mattress too soft to be real. No wonder I had been content to fall asleep. Sex, the soul-emptying kind like we had had, mixed with a bed softer than a cloud and the fact that I hadn't slept in anything other than my office in, like, forever, was enough to knock me out for the count. Now my body let me know just how much of a pounding it had taken.

I hurt. There was no hiding that fact. What we had done had stretched and tore me, my core stinging and aching. And yet I wasn't going to complain about it in the slightest. I actually smiled a bit.

I hadn't felt anything like that in my entire life. I wasn't going to regret it.

What I was going to regret having to arrest this man some day. No matter how much I loved him—and yes, after what we'd done, I could finally admit it to myself—I was still a cop. He was still a criminal. There was only one way this was going to end for us, and it wasn't with dramatic music and sweet flowers.

It was going to end as it had begun so many years ago: standing over the dead with the law between us.

I wasn't surprised to find I was alone in this mammoth bedroom. And the other part of me wasn't too terribly shocked to find that my clothing was gone, either. A lovely white sundress lay on the other side of the lake he called a bed. A matching jacket and shoes lay with it. Even a bottle of the perfume called Japanese Cherry Blossoms by Bath and Body Works nestled its way among the white silk of the outfit.

Yeah, I'm a cheap date. Twenty-five bucks for a bottle of my favorite perfume. What can I say? I'm a cop.

"You really do know all the tricks, don't you?" I murmured, getting tentatively to my feet. Yeah, I was pretty torn up. But again, I wasn't going to complain. And I wasn't about to prance around his bedroom naked, either.

I put on the gown and shoes, but left the perfume where it sat. Somehow I knew that if I put it on, I would be giving in completely. Sex—so long as it was this one time—could be dismissed as need. Putting on clothing to hide my nakedness could also be seen as a necessity. Putting on the perfume? It was like accepting a gift of blood money, like saying I agreed with him and all that he had done. I wasn't ready to go there yet.

There was only one door that I could find in the room, and that lead out to the balcony. For the life of me I couldn't remember where that hidden elevator was, or how to get it open even if I _could_ find it. So that left me one option. I pushed open the double doors…

"Holy Mary, mother of…"

Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous had nothing—_NOTHING_—on what I was staring down at. Gardens sprawled out before me. Flowers in bloom in every color and species and then some, trees with all kinds of fruit reaching towards that setting sun. I don't even think there were words to describe the colors I saw. And in the center of this Garden of Eden was a huge hedge maze. Poking out of the center of that was what could only be a personal mini version of a gothic cathedral.

"Careful that you do not fall, Miss Donner."

I jerked, hand automatically reaching to my side for the gun that wasn't there. Memmo Fierro stood at the bottom of the steps, dressed in his priestly vestments. "It's Lieutenant."

"Lieutenant," he corrected, dipping his head in a sort-of bow. "Forgive my intrusion on your thoughts. I saw you standing there and thought I could offer some assistance."

"Yeah," I said, feeling somewhat better now that I was speaking. It was as if hearing him acknowledge my rank was what I needed to shatter me out of my spell. I suddenly felt idiotic, stupid for having slept with Horatio and even more ridiculous for wearing this dress. "You can point me to the nearest exit."

Again, he did that little head-bow thing. "Of course, if you will follow me." He turned and headed down the flagstone path towards the hedge maze.

"Uh, Memmo?" I asked, hurrying down the marble steps after him. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear. I said I wanted to be shown the door, not deeper into this over-extravagant playground."

Oh yeah. I was getting back into the kick-ass dependable cop mode that I preferred. Much better than the confused and star-struck woman from a moment ago.

"You requested the exit," he said in that soft Central American accent of his, not bothering to slow in the slightest. "I am giving you that which you asked."

"You know, I get the feeling that this happens a lot here," I said rather tartly, falling into step beside him. "You ask for something and you get something else entirely."

The barest hint of a smile touched his lips. "Perhaps you do not understand the very question you asked."

That got to me. I reached out a hand, grasping his bicep and pulling him to a halt. "Okay, this cryptic holy man routine is getting old, Memmo. I know your rap sheet like I know my own skin, so don't pull this act for my benefit. I'm not buying it. And, while we are clearing the air, here, I think I should know what I want," I said, my temper starting to get the better of me. I'd take anger over fear any day, thank you very much. "I want out of here now."

Sadness touched his eyes, but once again he did that little head-bow thing and turned to continue on his way. "I am giving you what you want," he replied just as serenely as before. "And, as you say, since we are clearing the air, I would like to remind you that those days are behind me. I am no longer the man you once knew."

"All the Hail Mary's in the world won't help you beat a murder charge, pal."

"No, they won't. But they will help heal my soul, Lieutenant Donner, that I might make amends for my past transgressions. Judge not lest ye be judged."

I snorted. "I went to Catholic school. I know the scriptures. What the hell, let's say I'm buying this line from you. Tell me what would make a sociopath killer suddenly fight the light?"

"Not what, but whom."

I blinked, almost coming to a halt. "Come again?"

He turned the corner, and I realized that I'd followed him around a few turns already in this hedge maze. Great. So much for being my tough, dependable self. I'd let this man lead me further in Caine's playground. And there was nowhere else for me to go but onward. My sandals made an annoying clicking sound on the flagstones as I hurried to catch him, which made me feel even more ridiculous and out of my element. Clicking around in heels just seemed so undignified considering what I was asking his man.

"Okay," I said, catching up to him again. "I'll bite. Who's the 'whom' that turned you around? Your childhood priest?"

"No. The last woman I killed."

Well that was unexpected. "You realize that you're confessing to a murder, right?"

"A murder that I have been acquitted of by your courts, yes."

"Only due to a lack of evidence," I put in.

He shrugged fractionally, taking yet another turn in the maze. "It matters not. I am a man of the cloth now, Lieutenant Donner, but that does not mean I am ignorant of the laws of this country. Unless you are planning to arrest me and have me confess again under my Miranda rights, I fail to see how this conversation should cause you upset."

"Murder causes me upset, Memmo. That's something you Mala Noche thugs never seemed to understand."

A muscle twitched in his cheek, and anger flashed across his eyes a moment. Unconsciously I tensed, ready for the old Memmo to burst through the piety and for the fight to begin. But just as quickly as that anger appeared, it was gone. He continued his sedate and unhurried steps down the pathway.

"Goading me into anger is unbecoming, Lieutenant Donner. It is also rude. You are a guest in this house. Please, I ask kindly that you remember your manners."

"A guest," I repeated, staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Guests aren't held prisoner. Call me crazy, but that seems ruder than me asking a few questions that pertain to my investigations."

"Lieutenant Donner wasn't invited to this hou—"

"Yeah, yeah. Caine explained that to me. But since I can't shed my skin as readily as you both can, you get the cop and the woman. It's part of the package. Deal."

A frustrated sigh left his lips. Another corner was turned. "Very well. You asked who lead me to God? It is simple. Marisol Caine showed me the way to the light."

Well, I supposed that made sense in a way. Memmo was insane, alright. Thinking a dead woman led him to salvation. Right. I suppose my thoughts showed on my face because he stopped and turned to me. Those dark eyes bored right into mine. In them I saw pain, sorrow, regret, but also new joy and peace… and, unfortunately, very clear sanity.

"She led me through her death, Lieutenant Donner. I saw her face every moment of my life from the time she died. I was mad with the grief, though at first I did not know it. It was only when I came face to face with Horatio Caine did the full weight of what I'd done fall on my shoulders. I could see her staring at me through his eyes, and I could see that they both had forgiven me already for her death. That knowledge alone, that someone could forgive me for taking the life of their loved one, drove me to madness.

"In those years I sat in prison awaiting my trial," he continued, voice barely a whisper, his eyes turned inward to face demons only he could see. "Horatio Caine became my obsession. Not as he was to many prisoners, to men that wanted him dead for bringing them to justice. No, my obsession was based off of how he could keep going in light of his personal tragedies. I learned everything I could, including what I thought were his reasons for going on day after day. It wasn't until he returned from standing trial in Brazil that he told me just why he did what he did."

As if that explained everything, he turned on his heel and started to walk again. "Don't stop now," I goaded, partly because I thought this was all bullshit. Partly because part of me didn't. I wasn't sure I liked that part of me anymore. It made me doubt everything I knew about him… and about Caine. "What did he say?"

"That is not my secret to tell," he answered gently, coming to a stop again.

"That's not fair," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "That's half a story. If we go back to the beginning of this conversation, I can point out how rude it is to leave a guest hanging like this."

His smile was as gentle as his voice. "It's only half the story from the outside. Look inward for the rest. Now, I must take my leave."

"Hey!" I called, reaching for his arm again. "Not so fast, buddy. You told me you were going to show me the way out."

He looked over my shoulder, rather pointedly. So I turned my head… and felt my hand fall away from his arm as I once again gaped like an idiot. We were in the heart of the maze, and what I saw there took my breath away.


	7. Chapter 7

Marisol Delko Caine's face stared down at me.

The statue was exquisite, the detailing so complete as to almost appear alive. The damn thing seemed to breathe, and for a moment I thought I as staring at a ghost come to life. She stood resplendent, live-sized on a three-step marble stair. The entire statute was made of pure, veinless white marble, polished so it glittered in the fading afternoon sunlight. Garbed in white robes, with two perfect wings extended behind her, she held an expression of serene repose.

She held, at least to my eyes, the expression of true forgiveness.

I don't know how long I stood there gawking at the thing. My brain was trying to move past the absolute perfection of its craftsmanship and decide if this was the most loving memorial I had ever seen… or the most horrifying. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't offended by the sight of Marisol as an angel. Catholic school for most of my childhood had drilled all kinds of notions about angels and saints into my head. It was the fact that she was perfect. Too perfect. Marisol had been as human as I. That meant she had had flaws, both of the physical and mental variety.

I wasn't sure if I was staring at an idealized memory of his dead wife, or his vision of what a perfect woman truly was. That was the creepy part.

And yet, as I stood there gaping, the sun started to set. Cool evening light began to dim to shades of scarlet… washing over the white statue like crimson shadows of blood. I gasped. I couldn't help it. Was he denied even this, I wondered? Here, in his perfect garden with his perfect statues—things that would exist long after he and I were dust in our graves—he was still denied comfort. Always the blood on his hands would taint everything he touched. Even his statute of Marisol.

I was running before I knew what I was doing, heading into the mini-cathedral like hell, itself, was at my heels. I had to get away from the image of the blood-soaked angel. Somehow knowing it was just the shadows of sunset couldn't take the fear from my heart. I didn't want to see anymore. I didn't want these foreshadowings, these glimpses, into his heart.

I wanted to go home and forget that I ever came here. _Not to sound overly dramatic, Megan, but are you certain you want to know? This conversation could break you. _He had said those words to me at the beginning of this whole ordeal. He had been trying to warn me even then. I had been too foolish, too arrogant, to see those words for what they truly were.

The double doors closed behind me with an echoing boom, and I sagged against them gasping in air by the lungful. The desire to cry, to give way to giant wracking sobs, was almost too much to resist. Before this day began, I had been so certain that Horatio deserved everything that was coming at him. It had been his decision to walk this path, and it would be his fate to reap the consequences. Looking back on that now… I wasn't sure anymore. Even murderers deserved some respite from their crimes, even if it was only in their minds.

"You get used to it, you know; the attacks of conscience and the pains of the heart."

I spun around, slightly ashamed of the really girlish yelp that left my lips, partly surprised at the person who was speaking to me. Of all the people I had thought to encounter, I should have known that she would be here. And yet, she was one of the last people on my list. Some part of me had held out higher hopes for her, for the woman that at one time had been my friend.

Yelina Salas spared a soft and almost empathetic smile for me before turning back to her task. A hundred or more daisies were in her hands and strewn at her feet. Delicately, she plucked one stem from her hand, weaving it into the floral archway before her. Her hair was longer than I remembered, floating around her waist in soft brown waves. Her face held a few more lines than when last we spoke, making her look older and yet somehow more beautiful at the same time.

I stepped into the cathedral, the ridiculous clicking of my heeled sandals echoing loudly in the reverent silence. Candles lit the entire place, the scent of beeswax buried only slightly under the scent of lavender incense and flowers. There were two rows of five pews arranged before the altar, the stained glass windows rising high above me, spilling colored light across the worship section of the room. Everything was polished and shined, from the expensive mahogany pews to the gray marble floors.

It would have been breath-takingly beautiful, had I not been so afraid.

Yelina stood off to the right, and I saw that she was working over a beautiful bronze sarcophagus. The man pictured in exact relief—almost as exact and realistic as the statue of Marisol—was none other than Raymond Caine. Horatio's dead brother and Yelina's ex-husband. Other rows of copper pedestals lined that side of the wall, all empty of the crypts they were meant to hold.

"Daisies were his favorite flower," she said absently, and I wasn't sure if it was to herself or addressed to me. "In the beginning, he would bring me bouquets of them by the bucketful. Said that they were the only flowers that captured the sunshine and the summer breeze. Even at night, they would symbolize hope and love and the simple pleasures of life. But that was before..."

"Raymond," I said aloud, slowly crossing over to her.

Yelina nodded once, holding out a few stems of the flowers to me. "Before the meth took him from me, before the faked deaths and the unexplained secrets, we were truly happy. He would wake me every morning with a daisy, just caressing it up and down my face until I woke giggling at him like a schoolgirl."

Her voice sounded so wistful that I felt my throat choking up with tears. I had to clear it a few times. "We all miss him, Yelina."

She accepted the blossom that I held out to her, though her mouth turned down in a frown. "Not everyone," she sighed. "After Raymond truly died, after the three of us—Horatio, myself and my son—returned from Brazil to bury him properly, I learned just how little people missed him."

I winced inwardly at that one. "I'm sorry. I know I should have been there more for you—"

She waved away my words, plucking yet another flower from my hand. "You did what you thought was best, Megan. I don't fault you. You were dealing with the loss of your own husband. I didn't expect you to be at my beck and call. Not like the others."

What could I say to that? Nothing, I realized. No amount of words could erase the pain of loosing a husband. And no amount of words could take back that feeling of betrayal when almost everyone you counted on turned their back on you.

"Not Horatio," I found myself saying, my brain coming out of emotional lockdown enough to start being a cop again. More pieces were falling into place in this puzzle. Somehow I knew I had to collect them all before I could escape. "He never betrayed you."

"No," she answered. "He never did. He took care of us, just like he said he would. Do you know that Ray, Jr., graduates this year?" She flashed a smile at me, a bit of the old Yelina shining through the soft shroud of her grief. "He has been accepted into the Harvard Medical program. He's going to be a doctor. He is going to save lives, not bury them."

"Horatio is funding this, isn't he? Surely you have to know that your son isn't going—"

She cut me off with a look sharp enough to etch glass. "What I know is that Horatio has provided for us when we had nothing. He has promised me that Ray will not be part of anything he doesn't want to be part of. He made the same promise to Madison and Susie."

I blinked. "Madison and Susie are here?"

Now that was an unexpected twist, the thought that both Suzie and Yelina could live under the same roof and not kill each other. What kind of magic did Horatio possess that would make Yelina forgive the woman that had slept with her own husband, and worse, bore him a daughter?

"Of course," Yelina answered, as if we weren't discussing her husband's former mistress, and instead speaking about a beloved cousin. "We are a family, Megan. We have our own houses, of course, and our own lives. But we live as a family here on the estate."

It felt like a huge chuck of ice was forming in the pit of my stomach as I remembered the layout of this estate. There were six distinct mansions in the back of the property, mansions I had assumed belonged to Horatio's Mala Noche troops. I now knew different.

"Who lives in the other four houses?" I asked, terrified to know and yet needing the answer.

Yelina gave me a knowing smile, one that almost caused me to back up a step. "No one right now. Those are held in reserve."

"For who?" I prompted.

She turned back to the floral arch over Raymond's memorial tomb, adding more flowers. "Calleigh, Eric, Natalia, Ryan and Alex."

My flowers fell to the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I totally apologize that this has taken me so long to publish. This story is rapidly trying to reach its own conclusion and I'm not quite ready to let it end yet. ::Cries:: Again, this chapter is short in comparison to the others. I hope everyone enjoys it. The emotions in it left me drained when I was finished writing it and in desperate need of a nice glass of red wine. I think that means that I was satisfied with the outcome. I hope everyone is, too. Thank you so much for the kind reviews and the encouragement. It's very hard to stay in the dark place that this story comes from. Reviews make it all worth it. :)

As ever, I do not own CSI: Miami or anything attached to it, save my own OCs. Please don't sue. This is strictly for entertainment.

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I couldn't breathe. I knew well and good that there was plenty of air to be found in room, and still I couldn't get any of that life-giving oxygen to go down into my lungs. Or at least it felt that way. My arms were limp at my sides, my hands clenching and unclenching slowly. I didn't feel them, didn't realize what those digits were doing or what they wanted to grasp.

Hell, I didn't even know what I wanted in that moment. No, that wasn't entirely true. What I wanted was to close my eyes and wake up from this nightmare. I wanted to be safe in my bed, in my tiny little apartment, surrounded by the empty trinkets that signified what was left of my personal life. I didn't want to be here, facing this... this _truth_...

I wanted to be blind. I wanted to be stone.

I wanted not to feel anymore.

I would have liked to have stated that I was going into shock. One didn't get a verbal load of that magnitude dropped onto one's head without having some kind of reaction. But what I felt wasn't shock. The cold sweat that poured down my back, that chilled against my forehead were indicators that my body was certainly experiencing shock-like symptoms. But my heart wasn't racing. It was beating steadily, the breath that I couldn't feel but was apparently pushing in and out of my respiratory system, was even and calm. In fact, I was so damn calm in that moment that I could have stood like that forever. In fact, part of my brain was content to do just that. To stand in that moment, to exist until I died in that memorial tomb-like cathedral. Until I was nothing more than a marble statue with roman robes and outstretched wings.

Another woman lost to him, another angel drenched in the blood of his wrong-doings, dead through no other fault than loving him.

My legs gave out beneath me, and I collapsed onto the smoothly polished floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Yelina watched me as if from a distance, and I realized, as I stared up at her from the dropped flowers, that the look in her eyes was now mirrored in mine. She was what I was going to become if I chose to stay in this room, in this beautiful maze of secrets and revelations. I was seeing my future if I didn't get up from this floor and run. Run far away from him and escape the shadows and the blood and the death.

I was watching a cycle play out before my eyes, a never-ending circle of suffering.

But was I the woman to break it? If I stayed here, allowed myself to be part of his true life, would I end up weaving flowers over a memorial tomb, eaten alive by ghosts and secrets until I was afraid of standing out in the open sunlight? For some reason my mind kept flashing back to the cut-crystal windows of his bedroom. At the time I thought they served as protection from the outside world, from the people that were trying to kill him. Now a new thought struck me hard, stealing what little semblance of sanity I had managed to gather. Now I wondered if they obscured the outside world so that _he_ wouldn't have to look out into it. So that _he_ wouldn't be reminded of what he had lost.

My mind's-eye replayed that moment in our love-making when he had stared at my badge. It had recalled to mind the way a man would look at the sun. Awe and love, reverence in those blue, blue eyes… gratitude for the radiance and the life and the joy it gave. And then just as quickly he had ripped his eyes away, almost as if the light reflecting from the gold was too bright, too much for him to view safely. He couldn't stand to look at his former self, I somehow knew.

So he collected the pieces that he could of his past, securing them behind the safe walls of his power. Precious gems to protect, to give him joy in his lightless world.

Even knowing this, I couldn't bring myself to climb back to my feet. I didn't want to face this anymore, didn't want to risk the chance of running into him before I made my escape from this nightmare. Because, as much as all the revelations had taught me about the man he now was, it had shown me so much more about myself. If I saw him now, I just might surrender. I just might fall into his arms as Yelina must have done when all this was revealed to her. And then I would be frozen in this cycle. I would bear that look that most people mistake for serenity.

When in actuality, it was nothing more than the look of stasis. It was the look of a soul frozen in time, refusing to accept the world around them now that the pretty rose-colored glasses were removed from it's eyes.

And then Calleigh and Eric would follow, would search me out until they found me here. Would they be added to this frozen hell? Would it be my turn to hang flowers while I watched the truth strip the light from Calleigh's eyes, steal the smile from Eric's lips? And what about Natalia? What about Ryan?

"No," I whispered, slowly pushing myself to my feet.

Yelina looked over at me, pausing in the act of placing the last flower. "No?"

I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering as the tears fell. I no longer cared if I looked weak or girlie, or if the entire world saw me crying. "I can't accept it, Yelina. I can't accept this world he's created. I can't let myself die inside because I love him, because I want to give him some joy in this life."

She shook her head, almost as if in disappointment. "Then you missed the entire point of what he wanted to show you."

A trickle of frustration-born fire started to burn through the numbness inside me at her words, a spark that teetered on the edge of being drown in the descending chaos of my heart. Part of me was getting tired of hearing that phrase. It seemed everyone at this estate was telling me that I 'missed the point' of something. I closed my eyes, hugging myself all the tighter, blowing on that spark with the memory of Calleigh's laughter, of Natalia's bright smile and Eric's dancing eyes. I focused on Ryan's lopsided grin and Alexx's mothering words when we stood in the morgue, staring at the dead. She would always remind me about the life that was yet to be lived, and that we had to care for the dead. Because we never knew when it would be our turn to lay on that slab, and when that time came, we wanted to be cared for, too.

All I could see behind my closed eyes was Horatio's decaying form laying on that slab. Around him stood ghostly forms of Yelina and Susize and god only knew who else. They all tried to care for him the way he needed to be cared for, and yet their empty efforts passed through him. Their works and their caring just as dead as he was. And everyone knew that the dead could not heal the dead.

And dead inside was just the same as being physically dead. It was only a matter of time before the flesh realized this and caught up with the soul.

I shook my head so violently that my hair whipped across my face like stinging needles. "No," I blubbered out, swallowing over and over again against the tidal wave of sobs. "I think you all missed the point. Look at you, at the way you all act. He brought you here to live your lives in peace, not die quietly in his stead. You think your presence here is healing him, but it's not. Oh, god, Yelina, you have to realize that it's not. You're putting an emotional bandage on a wound that needs serious dressing. If you love him, if you want to help him, then—"

"Then what?" she snapped, eyes blazing so brightly that they almost outshone the candle flames. "What would you have me do? Convince him to turn himself in? To end this so-called life of crime? Do you think prison would help him?"

"Look around you, Yelina! This place is a prison, a prison of his own making."

It was her turn to shake her head forcefully, tears flying from her lashes in prismatic droplets. "No, no. We are safe here. Why can't you see that? Why can't you give up the pain like we all have?"

"This isn't giving it up," I said softly, trembling where I stood. "This is living in it, wallowing in it, letting it numb you to everything else. I won't do it, my friend. I won't lock down my life and help shoulder the burden of choices he made all on his own. I won't pay for his crimes. I love him too much to do that."

Yelina turned away from me, head bent, arms wrapped around herself much as I held myself. I had to wonder if she felt the same way, my one-time best friend. Was she holding onto herself in an attempt to comfort her soul, or was she holding onto herself because she felt as if she didn't, every piece of her being was going to fly apart at the seams.

The silence of the place weighed down on us both, broken only by her quiet sobs.

"Come with me," I whispered, voice echoing back to me.

"No," she said harshly. "No, you know nothing of love if you can say those things."

"No," Horatio answered so softly as to almost be inaudible, stepping quietly through the double doors behind me. "I think at last someone finally understands."

My heart froze, my eyes widening with fear, and slowly I turned my head…


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Apologies all around for taking so long to get this out. Many people aren't going to be happy with this, as this is the last chapter of Shadows and Light. The story has come to it's end. I will leave it up to the readers if they would like to see a Part 2 come out, and I will be more than happy to take suggestions on who should star in a part 2 (if anyone would like to see it, that is). I have to say that the reviews help tremendously, keeping me upbeat when stories like these can be really hard to finish. But finish it I have! Thank you all so much for supporting it with reviews and adding it to your favorites list. It has made my first fic for CSI: Miami something totally enjoyable! :D

As ever, I do not own CSI: Miami or anything connected to it. Please don't sue. This is purely for fun.

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He stepped towards us like a dark dream, like I'd always imagined a fallen angel to walk. Shadowless grace, and yet an earthly quality to him that kept one from thinking him a trick of the imagination. His footsteps weren't soundless but neither did they echo across the expanse of the cathedral. Just… soft. Muted. Like the sound was traveling across dimensions and what should have echoed loudly came through as a muffled and polite resonance. The hush rose up around us, a silent noise broken only by his footsteps and flickering of candle flames against wax.

I couldn't breathe in the silence, suffocating on emotions and quiet until I trembled uncontrollably.

Again, he was dressed in all black, his hair and eyes glittering like precious gems against all that unrelieved black. It was like looking at stars against the velvety backdrop of night. I was mesmerized by him, lost somewhere between amazement and horror. Here was a killer, a man that had the blood of so many on his hands, and all I wanted to do was take those hands and wash them clean with my tears.

Like Yelina had. And like Julia before her. And like Suzie before her. And Marisol before her…

"I can't," I shuttered out, my voice a hoarse whisper. "Can't you see that I can't be like them? Let me go, please. I'm begging you, Horatio, let me go. Don't turn me into another ghost to haunt your home."

He stood before me, and I flat out refused to look into his eyes. I knew if I did, I would take back those words so fast I would literally choke on them. It was easy to say the things I had said to Yelina when not staring into those sapphire orbs. It was easy to play the righteous woman when not faced with the greatest temptation in your life. And it was so easy to show others how to fix their problems when your own weren't staring you in the face.

"Yelina," he said softly, and I had the feeling that his eyes never left me. "Could you give us a few moments, please?"

I don't think the other woman turned to face him, either. I think that maybe, possibly, I had gotten through to her. Maybe she realized what she was now, too, and what fate she was trying to condemn me to as well. She was a ghost like all the others, a living reassurance that he could be loved and forgiven. And yet somehow along the way, we all had let love blind ourselves to the simple fact that forgiveness—true forgiveness—had to start inside the heart.

We could forgive him until the end of the world, but if he could not forgive himself, he was never going to move on. He was never going to truly love anyone ever again.

I'll never know if she nodded or if she did glance back at the man we both loved with all our being. I just remember the sound of her shoes clicking against the marble floor, the soft boom as the doors closed behind her. And left us alone together.

"May I touch you, Megan?"

I was sobbing again, head bowed and arms wrapped around myself so tight I was cutting off circulation. "No," I whispered.

He sighed slightly, the sound so sad.

"Will you let me go?" I asked, staring hard at the floor.

"No. You are free to leave here, but I will never let you go."

I looked up then, swiftly, eyes wide and terrified. "You have to let me go, Horatio. Why can't you see that? You have to let us all go. And you have to forgive yourself for what you've done."

He tipped his head to the side, the look of sorrow on his features matching the trembling in my voice. "Don't you think I know that?" he asked softly, reaching out, his fingertips brushing my cheek. "You know that each life taken, all the blood spilled, cuts into my heart and burns itself into my brain. I can't stop the cycle, Megan. Not if it means I have to forgive those that have wronged me. Not if it means I can't protect those I love."

His fingers felt like fire on my skin, a delicious warmth that I wanted to wrap myself in for all time. Here he was, offering me safety and security, everything I could want. Except the one thing I truly needed above all else. "You can't love, and that is your problem. That is why you keep us here, haunting your heart and your soul. Horatio, you can't love until you forgive yourself. It has nothing to do with those that have wronged you."

He turned away from me, pacing a few steps and placing his hands on his hips. I knew that pose so well, the lines of helpless frustration in his body. "Why do you say this to me?"

I looked around then, at the setting of our conversation. A tomb, a sacred place for memories of those long departed. A church meant for worship and joy and all the things that made life worth living. And we stood talking about ghosts and sins, things unclean and unfit for reverence. And I knew then the whole of it, the reasons why I was made privy to the things that he had hidden from Yelina and the others.

I was his dark mirror. I was his wake-up call. I was the face in the mirror that he hid from, the totality of all the things he feared.

I was the embodiment of his personal darkness. Because, out of all the people he had collected to live in this grand house, I was the only one that had known true, uncomplicated love. The fact that I had lost it, that my husband had died and left me to carry on in his absence, meant little. I had known that first brush of true love, the taste of undiluted joy. And most of all, I had known what was it was like to walk through the fire of loss and come out as myself.

While he still lingered in the flames.

My tears never stopped, but suddenly I wasn't so cold anymore. I walked up behind him, slipping my arms around his waist, holding him close. His head fell back, brushing the crown of mine. "Because you brought me here to tell you these things."

His breath hitched, and I could feel him fighting for control. "You never mourned her, did you?" I asked softly. "You never let yourself grieve for any of them. There was always someone else that needed you, one more case to solve. Never enough time to give vent to your sorrow so that you could begin to heal. And all the others, Julia and Yelina and Suzie… they wrapped your grief in layers of comfort, buried it with themselves until they had nothing left to give. And so they became living ghosts to make your dead ones, didn't they? They emptied themselves trying to keep you strong. And you entomb them like you do Marisol. All in the name of protection."

He turned in my arms, falling to his knees. Tears silently made their way down his face, his hands locked around my waist this time. "I knew you would see it," he whispered. "Let me confess to you, Megan. Be my light this time."

I shook my head slowly, my hands caressing his hair. "I'm not the one that can absolve you, Horatio."

He shook his head, looking away. "I am not ready to confess to Him, yet."

"Then confess to yourself," I took his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me again. "Tell yourself all the things you have done and the reasons why."

"Will you help me?"

I had every reason to refuse him. I had every desire to run away, to hide from what he would say. He had begun his confession that morning, I realized, the moment he had invited me to lunch. That time in the study had been the crack in the dam, so to speak, a testing of the waters to see if he was ready to take this step. Only fear had gotten in the way and I had been too overwhelmed to see it. Fear had given way to the need for comfort, to our lovemaking.

And that comfort, much like the comfort given by the women before me, had been enough to put a bandage on the hurt in his soul. He had convinced himself that if he kept me with him, I would bind that hurt forever. Instead, I would have slowly withered to nothing, giving him everything until I was like Yelina. Standing before a tomb, waiting for the horror of this life to end so that I could find release. Dead inside, and waiting for my body to catch up with my soul.

"Okay," I said simply, and reached for his hand.

He lead me out of that cathedral, that place of beautiful horror, out of the depths and confusion of the hedge maze, and back into his home.

I stood beside him in that wonderful bedroom, the sheets still smelling of his cologne and my perfume and our love-making. I made him stand before the mirror of the bathroom, made him face himself, and listened as he told himself all the things he had done. I listened to it all, wept with him instead of for him like the others had done. And in the end, it was my arms that cradled him as the dam of his grief finally broke and he let it drown him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The gates of the Ravenswood Estate closed behind me with mechanical and silent efficiency. The former Mala Noche guards waved me through without complaint, apparently receiving some silent memo or something from their leader. It didn't bother me anymore, those gang-bangers turned guardians. It should have, but it didn't. And the fact that it didn't bother me should have bothered me all the more. But after everything I had learned, everything I had seen, the thugs weren't so much as a blip on my radar anymore. I had eyes only for the future that lay before me. Dawn was breaking in the east, painting the iron gates in shades of rose as I drove down that long and winding path. The Florida heat was rising with that sun, promising another scorcher of a day. Par for the course when living in the Sunshine state. I smiled softly at that rising warmth, turning the H3 down the road that would lead to the bridge off of Star Island.

It was such a contrast to the day I had arrived. There was light and calmness instead of thunder and gloom. I smiled instead of frowned. And the rising sun held the color of hope rather than the weight of blood. I will never utter the words he had confessed in that bedroom, never speak again of the things that transpired afterwards long into the morning hours.

All I can say is this: Life and Death had fought in that stretch of time between yesterday and today, and the battlefield had been the bruised and shattered soul of one Horatio Caine. I want to say that life won out in the end. I want to believe that with all my heart. But I knew better than anyone that this was only the start of the healing process for him. What happens next in his life would be up to him and those around him.

I had done my part. I had broken the self-imposed curse that froze him in time, just as he knew I would. The rest? Well, that was now in the hands of those that cherished him. Love had done its part. And there was more to life than love. God, there was so much more. If he was lucky, he'd understand that, too, in time.

I waited until I was over the deepest part of the bay that separated the insanely rich on Star Island from the rest of us poor working slobs before I threw my badge into the waters. Twenty years of my life tumbled with that gold-colored piece of metal, falling into an abyss to hopefully never be seen again. I would never be able to wear it with any integrity, not after what I had witnessed in this past day. And not with the lies that I would pen in my last report.

I would keep his secrets.

I would always love him.

But I would always love myself, too.


End file.
